against the bar and try to look nonchalant. She carries on cleaning. I don’t see her face, just the expanse of her arse and a visible panty line. But I try not to stare too hard at that. When she straightens up, she starts. Colour rises in her puppy-fat cheeks. I can’t place her age. She could be anywhere from sixteen to thirty. According to her name tag, she’s called Pauline.
‘Y’alright?’ I say.
‘Aye,’ she says. ‘Sorry, you gave me a fright.’
I smile my charming smile. It doesn’t sit right, obviously, because she looks a little intimidated. I tone it down. ‘Sorry.
You open?’
‘What you after?’
‘Bottle of Becks.’
She smiles. There’s no need for it, and her smile is like a bonny baby in a morgue. It makes me wonder why she works here. She fetches my beer and sets it on the bar. I pay, take a long swallow. ‘It’s dead in here,’ I say.
‘Always is this time of day.’
Another yell from the Chinese guys. Yeah, it’s dead. Nice one, Innes.
“I just joined. Thought it might be a laugh.’
‘Don’t get too attached to the place,’ she says.
‘They knocking it down or something?’
‘Nah. Just don’t get too attached to the place.’
‘Right. I get you.’ I take a swig. ‘You just work in the afternoons?’
She blushes again. Probably thinks I’m flirting. And maybe I am. The beer’s got me lazy.
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I’m looking for a guy. I heard he might come in here.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘You know names?’
“I know some names.’
‘Rob Stokes. He’ll be a new punter. Probably started coming in a week or so ago. Mane accent.’
Pauline pours herself a Coke from the draught. Sips it, thinking. Then: ‘What’s he look like?’
I give her the description I was given. ‘Apparently, he’s got a temper on him.’
‘They’ve all got tempers on them if they lose.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘What’d he do?’ she says.
‘He owes a friend of mine money.’
Her eyes sparkle. ‘You’re going to break his legs, is that it?’
I smile. ‘Nothing like that. Do I look like a legbreaker?’
‘You don’t look like much of anything,’ she says.
‘Cheers.’
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you don’t look like a legbreaker. I should think before I say stuff.’ She drinks her Coke and leans against the bar. ‘My boyfriend says that.’
‘Your boyfriend sounds like a wanker,’ I say.
‘He is.’ She looks out at the pit and yawns. ‘He’s a lazy bastard, right enough. Supposed to be at home right now looking after the bairn, right? Bet you he’s out drinking.’
‘You want to call him?’
‘And get disappointed? Nah. I’ll wait till I get home.’
‘He doesn’t work?’
‘Does he fuck. He’s on disability. Reckons he’s depressed.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘Aye. That’s why he’s down the pub or smoking tack in the house. Depression. Fuck’s sake, he wants to get himself a job.’ Her voice hardens, and for a moment, she looks a lot older. ‘What do you do, though? He’s a free babysitter.’
‘A babysitter who smokes tack in the house.’
‘Better than nothing. Christ, look at me. You want another drink?’
I drain the bottle. ‘Why not, eh?’
She cracks the top off another bottle, says, ‘So you just joined. What d’you think of the place?’
‘I think it’s a shithole.’
‘Aye, that’s about right. So why are you really looking for this guy?’
I smile. ‘He dropped his wallet. I have to give it back to him.’
‘Uh-huh. And another.’
‘He’s my estranged brother. I just want to make up with him for Mam’s sake.’
She laughs. ‘That’s sweet.’
‘That’s the kind of guy I am.’
‘You’re fuckin’ nuts,’ she says.
‘Are they showing?’
‘Give me your number, then.’
‘Your bloke might have something to say about that.’
‘For when this Rob gadgie comes in,’ she says.
I hand her a card. She cocks an eyebrow. ‘You’re a PI?’
‘That’s right, sweetheart,’ I say in my best Bogart. I do a full-on Mike Yarwood bad impersonation, the quivering top lip, the whole bit.
‘You alright?’ she says.
I stop the lip thing. ‘Yeah.’
“I thought you were having a turn.’
‘Look, you see anything, hear anything, you drop a dime, okay?’
Maybe it’s just the beer buzz, but I feel pretty good about myself, despite the fact the Bogie didn’t go down well. She laughs again. It sounds too natural for a place like this. I leave the bar, cross the casino. On the way out, the receptionist heaves her way through a nasty coughing fit.
Now I just have to wait.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Three hours in a van with Rossie and Baz, man. Not my idea of a sharp time. I banged back a couple moggies on the way up ‘cause Baz stuck in this tape of shite tunes and I wanted to sleep through it. So I went to kip in the middle, heard Rossie and Baz bitch at each other about the tape. Then Rossie got all pissy and chucked the tape out the window onto the road and Baz started bleating.
‘Oi, Fatboy Fat, fuck up, will you?’
When we got to Newcastle, there weren’t no vacancies. I said, ‘What the fuck’s this, like?’
‘Westlife are playing at the Arena,’ said the bloke on reception. He smiled and it were like his baby teeth never fell out.
‘Westlife, fuckin’ Westlife.’
‘Fuckin’ shithole this is, like,’ said Rossie. ‘Who’s playing next week? Fuckin’ Girls Aloud?’
“I like that Geordie one,’ said Baz. ‘She looks well fuckin’ dirty.’
‘I think there are some rooms at the airport,’ said the bloke. Helpful cunt, this one.
‘The airport? How far away’s the airport?’ I said.
‘About forty-five minutes.’
Rossie kicked the reception desk. The bloke jumped.
‘Aye, fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll go up the airport.’
